


A Trick of the Rain

by amarmeme



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A mutual dislike of Orlais by most parties, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dalish Elves, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Friendship, Heartbreak, Long-Distance Friendship, Longing, Lots of rain, Mages and Templars, Male-Female Friendship, Misunderstandings, Orlesian Chevaliers, Post-Break Up, Sad Cullen, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Templars, Then happy Cullen I'm not evil, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Summary: Verita Lavellan didn't anticipate falling in love so quickly with Solas, nor did she suspect their subsequent break-up was coming. Free of her vallaslin, head full of doubt and the voices of Mythal's servants, Verita must come to terms with what's happened in order to see the Inquisition succeed. Coupled with her challenges to lead under emotional distress, Verita suspects Cullen harbors feelings for her, an added complication to her already confusing situation.Michel de Chevin came to the Inquisition with no other options. Itching to find meaning again, he seeks the support of Verita Lavellan in his cause. While the last two years of his life have been incredibly difficult, the last thing he expected was to find himself pining over an elf. It's the least he deserves, really.





	1. Chapter 1

_**VERITA** _

It is raining again in Crestwood. The gentle mist kisses the Inquisitor’s bare face, obscuring tears tracking down her freckled cheeks. Verita has always loved the foulest weather, thunderstorms raving outside the family tent, hazy mornings when fog dances over the ground like drifting smoke from a dying fire pit. Each crack of thunder or patter of rain calls to her in a way she can’t easily describe, her very soul lighting up with the scent of disruption on the air, synchronous to the magic flowing in her veins. On this somber night she is grateful for the inclement skies providing an excuse to appear put out. Verita drags herself into Caer Bronach, downcast eyes studying her fine boots, the buttery brown leather peppered with dark splotches. Anyone else tracking in from the wild would look as miserable as she feels inside. Who likes being caught in the rain?

Verita usually does.

Charter knows this about the Inquisitor; Charter knows _everything_ whether Verita tells her or not. One look at her leader’s singular-focused trek into the keep and the city-born elf sifts through the puzzle pieces instantly, the initial turn of the head the only indication of notice. Blessedly for Verita, the keep is busy and no one pays her mind. Inquisition spies zip past merchants and Crestwood natives with an effusive eagerness to pass information up the chain of command. Normally the sight makes Verita glad, two elves in positions of power with no one muttering knife ear or rabbit behind their hands, but the trying day weighs heavily. It is all she can do to not break down and fall to her knees in the middle of the crowd. She is tired of elves, their identity, their struggles and pride, misplaced as it was. All she wants to be is Verita Lavellan. And alone.

Solitude will be impossible to manage since Charter has seen her, and while the spy thinks with breakneck pace, even the dimmest elf wouldn’t miss the obvious -- what is so obviously missing. The loss of Verita’s _vallaslin_ is a burr, snagging her heart as she recalls the moment with piercing clarity. It is hard to comprehend something so vital to her identity could be erased so easily, a mark that kept so many of the people divided for as long as anyone could remember. As if paying respects to the gods made one elf more important than another.

 _No,_ Verita corrects. _Not respect, but markings meant for slaves._

The storm begins to pick up, winds howling over the top of the parapets. Several merchants stack their goods away from the sudden slanting rain, the clanking of metal and shifting of boots on stone a familiar ambient sound. Not long ago she felt overwhelmed by it all, the mass of people, mostly humans, but also city elves and dwarves and even qunari calling her Herald and handing her metal armor as if you needed something shiny pinned to your chest in order to stay alive. In time though, the name Inquisitor became easier to bear, _vhenan_ easier still. That was the most natural title of all, as easy as breathing or as instinctive as closing your eyes and tipping your head back to face the sun.  

 _Vehnan._ Verita sighs indulgently upon reaching the stairs to her quarters. There’s a keep in every country and a room for her in every keep. After ten months it's still overwhelming.  She pauses at the bottom of her designated place, looking up and wondering if Solas is there. He had departed first, leaving Verita in the clearing alone with her thoughts and the voices of Mythal’s servants whispering unintelligibly in her head. She’d sat until the rain started, contemplating, fighting the urge to stare in the water at her foreign reflection. Part of her believed Solas was still upset about the Well. It was the only time they’d argued and was immediately where her scrabbling mind went. Now if he rests inside, likely consulting the fade on how to further shatter her heart, what should she do? What if he isn’t there? Would that be worse? Indecision rakes its claws across her stomach until the soft press of a hand on her shoulder smothers despondent thoughts. She turns and Charter stands silently, blinking away the rain, the vibrant purple wing tips defining her eyes still perfectly placed. They may as well be tattoos for as precise as they always are. Verita chokes down a sob studying her friend’s dear face.

“Five minutes ago,” Charter whispers.

Verita nods, then looks to her covered feet again. Months ago she’d never worn shoes. 

“Come with me.” The spy curls her fingers into the leather at Verita’s shoulder, urging her to move. Verita does, albeit reluctantly, like a child being dragged to bed while the rest of the clan still laughs around the fire.

They walk side-by-side, parting the press of bodies with their status now. A few greet Verita, nodding respectfully, calling her Inquisitor as they pass. She averts her face as best she can knowing whispers will follow in their wake otherwise. There is a storage room just nearby that lets out behind the keep, and the door cannot come soon enough. Verita almost trips inside in haste as Charter swings it open. The spy shuts the door tightly behind them, then shoves a heavy crate at the corner to deter visitors. Now alone, Charter takes the Inquisitor’s marked hand and squeezes firmly. The gesture is kind and Verita’s emotions get the best of her, a flood of tears dripping off her chin at an alarming rate. She did not know how much she needed a friendly touch.

“Let's have a drink,” Charter says. She coaxes Verita gently towards the back door. “You need to let it all out before you burst.”

Verita nods, sniffling but somewhat comforted. The beauty of a spy as a friend is that they carry nothing of themselves on the surface to grate on your nerves. A good spy is cool, collected, forgettable, calm. A woman like Charter listens and listens well for she knows the value of words and how they can be used to hurt, and sometimes heal. Solas had broken off their attachment and her only sense of relief came from the fact he'd done so in Crestwood. At least now she could come up with a plan for holding it together with her closest friend.

The steps leading outdoors are slick with rainwater leaking from beneath the rotting door jam. Verita’s footfalls squelch unpleasantly in the murky puddles and she hurries up to greet the rain again. Angry drops of water hammer against the other side of the wooden door and the two elves brace themselves before throwing it wide. Embracing the chilly rush of air and the rain on her face, Verita breaks from the keep first, carrying herself as steadily as she can across the dam’s walkway to the abandoned tavern. The Rusted Horn’s namesake flutters in the wind, pellets of icy water plunking against the instrument in an uneven rhythm. Verita shoves the tavern door open with a hip, remembering how it caught the last time she was here. Instead, it flies open and she stumbles inside with a start, staff knocking against the floorboards.

“Oh!” She catches herself on her hands.

“We fixed that.” Charter pulls her friend off the ground, and Verita thanks her, rubbing her chaffed palms.  

The tavern is dark, yet seemingly bereft of teenage lovers. Verita doesn’t think she could handle that sight right now. A cool blue light engulfs her hand as she heals her raw palm and it serves just fine as a torch to find the fireplace. The tingle in her skin from the healing magic prickles the back of her neck and she shivers slightly as the hair on her arms raise. The sphere of blue light makes the fireplace easy to spot and Verita pulls out her staff. She throws a fireball at the scattered stack of wood laying in the pit and it catches easily, though she casts once again for good measure.

Impressed, Charter leans against a column across from the fire to watch. “It seems convenient being a mage,” she says. The spy twists back, reaching underneath a nearby bench, pulling a bottle from a sack of grain. “But without me you wouldn’t have this.”

Charter pops the cork and gestures with the wine for her to sit at the opposite bench. Verita joins, the healing magic blinking away in an instant, and rests her staff against the side of the table. They’re in no danger, tucked away in the shuttered tavern. Once there would have been music and laughter here, but it still remains a ghost of itself. There were no dedicated troops for fixing up the place, enough were needed for the upkeep of Caer Bronach, but in the firelight Verita can see that someone has made an effort to tidy up The Rusted Horn. The cobwebs have been cleared, the tables wiped clean of dust and droppings. There’s nothing behind the bar, but she makes a mental note to have that looked to. The men and women stationed in Crestwood could use a place to relax.

“Here, you deserve the first drink I think,” Charter says. She passes the wine to Verita. It is ancient, judging by the crumbling label, though the whole tavern had been abandoned for nearly ten years. She takes an experimental sip, judges it to be poor quality, and with a twitch of the nose, takes a long pull. Charter’s brows can get no higher. “I’m good, but even I can’t make fine wine appear out of thin air.”

“If only you could,” Verita gags. “This will need do.”

The two trade drinks before the crackling fire, until the familiar feel of a different sort of tingle returns to Verita’s body. It hits her slowly, a pressure against her shoulders and the back of her neck, until her face flushes and the sensation is gone and replaced by a heavy warmth. Charter watches her friend closely, carefully -- judging the precise moment when to ask her questions. They trade back and forth for nearly a quarter of an hour, not saying anything, Verita grimacing over the wine until the taste no longer matters much, Charter holding her tongue. Thoughts of Solas, the shocking effect of his words and his actions, mix with the vague roiling voices of the _vir'abelasan_ and the lulling passivity of the alcohol until Verita realizes the bottle is more than half gone. Upon seeing so she slumps against the table.

“I never drink,” she sighs against her folded arms. She rests her head against her top-most wrist, closing her eyes against the world.  

“You don’t lose a vallaslin every day either,” Charter adds. It sounds like a jest and Verita peers up incredulously. Charter is not laughing, rather tapping her forefinger against the glass neck. “Tell me, Verita. You’ll feel better or I’ll arrange an accident. Either way.”

“I don’t want that,” she admits. It is true, she doesn’t want to harm him. Just discover what happened, understand if there is a way to fix things. Verita sits up straight, hoping to put her thoughts in some order.

“I hardly know how to explain it. He wished to tell me what I meant to him and in the end he called himself a distraction and refused to let me in. I just--” she gulps down a hard lump in her throat, “don’t know what I did wrong?”

“You? Nothing.” Charter grabs her hand, thumb brushing against the back of her wrist. “And the tattoo just slid off in shock?”

“Why are you so fixated on that?” Verita grabs back the bottle and takes another drink, despite not needing it.

“A tattoo doesn’t just _disappear_. My guess is he did special magic somewhere in the middle bit you’re glossing over. Maybe because it’s worse than some aloof apostate asshole leaving you.”

Verita sags, hands falling flat on the table. The anchor sparks, casting her face in green light and she can see her reflection in the glass bottle. The missing _vallaslin._ A pain flares in her chest so sharply she almost cries out. For while there’s still a shred of hope in her heart that she can convince Solas he’s no distraction, there’s no turning back from the truth of his words about her people. While he might lie about his wishes and desires, he wouldn’t lie about what he saw in the fade. Her chest burns with the truth he laid bare, and Verita fears the awful words will turn her to ash if she doesn’t expel them now.  
   
“The _vallaslin_ were slave markings,” she whispers. “We misunderstood their purpose, and in the moment I thought--”

Her mind is a blank. In truth, she still doesn’t know what to think. Even if they were slave markings once, they are not now. That is not what they stood for in her clan, or any clan for that matter. Verita wishes she could blame Solas for the loss of her _vallaslin_ , but that would not be fair. It was a choice, one she made of her own volition, and she must live with it. To admit this, even to a friend, is more difficult than she imagined. Shame bubbles up from the pit of her stomach. Her ears burn with it, and she finds herself crying again.  
  
_I threw it away,_ she thinks. _How can I ever return to my clan?_  
  
“You still can honor your gods without a mark on your face,” Charter reasons. “Even a few _flat ears_ manage, despite having even less clarity than you do.”  
  
It sounds harsh, but Verita knows it not meant as such. She alone has more knowledge, seen more artifacts and signs of her ancestors than most elves do in their lifetime. And despite how much the Dalish misinterpret, the few faithful left in the cities make do so with even less. It is no small wonder many turn from the Creators and accept the pittance of faith they can glean from the teachings of Andraste. Suddenly the question that plagued her once Solas shared his learnings from the fade comes into focus again. _If the gods had slaves, were they still gods at all?_ Verita’s insides twist with this lingering question like the great roots of the _Vallasdahlen_ in the Emerald Graves.

“I’ve learned more about the history of our people as the Inquisitor for a human religious order than I have in my entire life. How is that possible?”  
  
“You’ve travelled father in the last ten months than you have in your entire life. Pity you had to visit Orlais to discover more of your past.” Charter’s scorn for Orlesians is barely hidden and Verita sighs weakly in agreement.

“Verita,” Charter says, voice turning even again. “You are no less Dalish -- no less who you have always been -- because of your bare face. You are Verita Lavellan. Inquisitor, _Herald of Andraste,”_ this she says with mirth, mouth quirked, _“_ you’re saving the world, all the Theodosian gods will forgive you this slight. And furthermore, maybe Solas was right.” Verita blinks, mouth falling open in surprise. It is the last statement she expected to hear from her friend. “We are close, I can feel it. Every day we see fewer of Corypheus’ army, perhaps because they are defeated, or more likely they gather for a final push. Maybe you need to focus on what the Well is trying to tell you. Solas, in his idiot way, was attempting to help get out of your path so you can do so. As much as I'm loathe to admit it, I agree with the scoundrel.”

Out of all that sound reasoning one word jumps out at Verita. “Scoundrel? He's no pirate.”

“He's no meager apostate either. Half a dozen of one, six of the other. I've said it before, he's hidden his past as well as I have. And if I'm telling you I'm a spy, what's he not saying?”

Verita sighs, pushes her fingers into her hair, massaging her aching temples. She cannot disagree. “You sound like the Iron Bull.”

“Good.” Charter steals back the wine, finishing the last gulp. Afterwards she raps her nails against the scarred wood table before pointing at Verita with the empty bottle, two fingers in the mouth. “Maybe you should see Bull, let him help you _gain that focus_.”

“You can't believe I'd actually do that.” Verita shakes her head; it is heavy, so heavy with all the drink. There’s no possible way she’d run off to another to solve her aching heart. The sudden thought of dextrous, lithe fingers running along her collarbone makes her insides ripple with anxiety and she must focus on the flickering fire to keep from being overwhelmed.

Charter shrugs, flipping the wine bottle off her hand and into the other. “Not elfy enough? Maybe you need the opposite, for perspective.” Charter grins as Verita waves dismissively in her direction.

“Okay, _Sera_.” Verita scolds halfheartedly. There’s one elf in Skyhold she can't seem to relate to at all. Not that any of them are excellent confidants. The only other Dalish elf refuses to admit she's also a mage. That kind of delusive game is not one Verita would like to take part in.

“How about Blackwall? He's always looking at you with those big beardy eyes.”

“Stop,” Verita pleads. The conversation is going a direction she does not want to follow, uncomfortable about the topic of Blackwall. There’d been some miscommunication on her part early on. One minute she’d being what she thought was polite, the next he was dissuading her from an apparent relationship.  “I don't know why there aren’t more elven men in the Inquisition,” she says. Charter lets her move on adroitly. “Besides you, me and Sera there's so many female elves around. Fiona, Dalish, Skinner, Elan, Helaine. There's not another elf-blooded male for miles.”

Charter laughs. “Do you think Solas marked his territory?”

Verita considers how easy it would be to send a bolt of lightning through her friend. She'd not even need to move so much as a muscle. But, it is better to be annoyed than sad. Nothing is quite funny yet.

“Oh come on,” Charter smiles. “Maybe this is divine intervention telling you to give up on men and try women after all.”

“I think you’re partially right. I should figure out what the Well is trying to say and forget about men altogether. I don't know how to pretend this,” she gestures to her face, “didn't happen.”

Leaning forward, Charter practically purrs with a deep throated malice. “You don't pretend. You let Solas explain that one.”

“I-- I couldn't.” Her heart beats quickly with the temptation of letting someone else break the news.

“You don't think Leliana would find out anyway? One word and I'll send a raven. He's going to have a head start on you. Might as well make his return as fruitful as his little trip to Crestwood.”

Verita gasps. She does not want to give Solas reason to be more upset with her and while there’s no certainty in what Leliana's actions might entail,  she's spent enough time with the woman at the war table to know how she thinks. “You wouldn't!”

“Nothing like that, we’re not going to torture it out of him. You're too sweet for your own good. I'd eviscerate him if I were you.”

“Lucky for all of us you're not!” She waves both her hands to clear the air of the talk of torture and disembowelment. “I'm tired, let's just go.” Verita stands abruptly, and finds it is hard to keep from wobbling over. “Oh,” is all she can manage.

Charter helps the Inquisitor up and mutters about putting out the fire while carrying a drunken elf. Verita simply wiggles her fingertips and water pours down the chimney, killing the flames. They leave the tavern as quickly as they came, though at some point the rain stopped. The twin moons, Satina and Hyperios, hang low in the sky. Their presence is usually so calming, but Verita has to look away knowing every pair of any kind is like to give her a twinge of longing.

The passage back inside Caer Bronach is still clear and open, wooden door creaking in the wind. After a cautious trip down the wet stairs, Charter leans Verita against the large casks and makes her sit still as she moves the crate she wedged against the door an hour or so before. Verita’s head spins with the drink, her copper-haired friend transforming into two wiggly forms, and she closes her eyes. The first thing she pictures is the last image she wants to, Solas leaning in for an urgent kiss as if his life depended on it. The press of a hand on her arm is so real that Verita sways into the touch. A softly cleared throat brings her attention back to the present and her eyes pop open, the image erasing from her mind’s eye like sand through her fingers. A trace of regret lingers. Charter doesn’t speak, but ushers Verita through the room.

 _Mythal'enaste,_ the main level of the keep is sparse, only a handful of agents remain for evening duty. They pay the pair little heed, as any good agent should. Charter walks Verita up to her quarters; a quiet, empty room. All of Solas’ possessions are gone of course, and the sight of Verita’s pack alone against the far wall causes her heart to sink, capsizing from the weight of too many reminders. _Where there was two now there is one._

She rests her staff against a stone wall, the head incandescent with the trickle of magic she sends to light the room. Everything is awash in the flickering orange glow of magic flames. Charter maneuvers Verita down to the mattress, holding her shoulders lightly as if she might shatter. After receiving help peeling off her boots and wet clothing from the other woman, Verita crawls into bed.

“Thank you, Charter.” She mumbles into the pillow. It is still smells like Solas from the night before, a combination of crushed herbs and paints, and the sharp, pleasant tang of magic in the air. Verita gasps a little, inhaling the heady scent. She flips the pillow over, and says as she settles again, “Maybe send the raven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verita was the Inquisitor I forgot about, shuffled off to the corner of my mind because of Cullen romances. But in playing the DLCs with her I was inspired again; to write about breakups and how to become yourself again after losing your identity in another. I don't dislike Solas, at all, but this is not about getting back together. Some relationships are better left in the past, and offer us valuable insight into ourselves only in hindsight (heavy I know). 
> 
> Now, the label on the can clearly states Female Lavellan/Michel de Chevin and some might raise a brow at that, but honestly there's so much to explore there. If you've not read The Masked Empire, be prepared for some... surprises about Skyhold's other regulation hottie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verita returns to Skyhold and Cullen and the other advisors react to the loss of her vallaslin.

**_CULLEN_ **

Leliana has something up her sleeve, a detail she does not care to share, but is clear from the spark in her eyes. Cullen does not doubt she purposely reveals this intrigue, but studies the fireplace instead of guessing. The spymaster sits on the corner of Josephine’s polished, tidy desk, picking over a parcel of chocolates the ambassador received, eschewing the misshapen pieces.  
  
“Don’t you think, Cullen?” Josephine asks. He turns to her voice, a look of absolute consideration on his face, though he has no idea what was said.

“Oh, Josie, he’s not paying attention to us.” Leliana pops a chocolate into her mouth, licking the remnant of sweet on her thumb. “Isn’t that right commander?” Her voice is teasing, light. Sometimes the three women at the top of the Inquisition are more trouble than he can reasonably handle, this being one of those times.

“Whatever it was didn’t need my opinion, I’m sure.”

He flicks his attention between the ambassador and the spy. Their mouths are both quirked now, upturned with mischief. They are all waiting for the Inquisitor. If he wasn’t so worried about her delay from Crestwood, the lure of his office would have won out over waiting in a den of she-wolves. Cullen sighs. He _is_ worried about Verita though.

Both women currently present know his feelings for the Inquisitor, though for his sake he hopes not the depth. Despite believing himself very capable of hiding his... _admiration_ for Verita, nothing escapes his colleagues’ notice. The former bards tease him when she is not around, which is unfortunately more often than not. Both for the teasing and the lack of her presence in Skyhold. Now he doesn’t care if a look of consternation is on his face in their company, what with Solas returning from Crestwood days before Verita. The mage seems nonplussed, reading or sleeping or painting in the atrium as if nothing had happened. And perhaps not. There was no way for Cullen to yet know, it hardly was like him to ask anything of the apostate, and he would reveal far too much in the asking now.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine chirps suddenly, rising from her desk.

Cullen didn’t hear Verita's arrival at all, so deep in thought. He makes a conscious decision to move slowly, as if he wasn’t eager to see her face. The reactions from the two other women are beyond curious, Josephine blanching slightly while Leliana sits stone-still, waiting for something. Verita murmurs a greeting so timid he strains to hear it, and Cullen finally allows himself to look upon her. The mood in the room has become tense, and as if his body has become sympathetic to their dispositions, his chest thrums in anticipation. He rises from the couch to usher them into the war room and almost drops back down in seeing Verita’s bare face. The bold, purple markings for one of her gods is gone. It would be hard to miss such a thing. Staggering slightly, he clears his throat and manages to speak without alarm. Years of handling blood mage apostates who are prone to spook will teach you to be calm in the face of uncertainty.

“Inquisitor, shall we move on?” He sweeps forward with his arm.

Verita looks relieved, nodding and taking the chance to turn away from the trio and push past the door towards the war room. Behind her, the advisors look to one another without a word. In the exchange of glances it is clear Leliana does indeed know something. She taps the side of her nose and raises her brows, leaving Cullen and Josephine to share a sympathetic look. The ambassador picks up her tablet and quill and marches behind Leliana.

He’s never been very good at hiding his emotions from his face, or so Cullen has been told. Not as a young recruit, especially not after Ferelden’s circle tower. Marian Hawke called him out on it often, nicknaming him something not even worth thinking of now, stern and angry as he was in Kirkwall. Usually it doesn’t matter much, he makes a point to say what is on his mind anyway. But in this moment, Cullen would give anything to be able to look at her without the depth of his concern shining through. His heart still beats strangely, sending a rush of blood pounding in his ears as he trails the women into the room and behind the war table. Verita’s unmarked hand runs along the edge of the table, a nervous tic. Her back is slouched, her shoulders drawn in. Whatever she needs to say will be difficult for her. Cullen wishes he could lend her some sort of strength or resolve, though his seems to flounder every time she is near.

In their routine positions, Cullen flanked by Leliana and Josephine, it takes every strength of will he possesses _not_ to look at Verita. He cannot be certain the change plain on her face is thanks to Solas, but it doesn't take a great intellect to realize something went wrong between their departure and the mage’s abrupt return. Cullen is torn with indecision of whether it is ruder to stare or avoid looking at her altogether. Leliana leans forward over the table and the motion draws his attention to the map. Wooden pieces are checked all over the expansive table, a bright purple bolt of lightning signifying the Inquisitor’s whereabouts. A piece designed at her own request. It still sits on Crestwood, though that’s not right any more. Without thinking, he moves it back to Skyhold. A little gasp, half hidden by the sound of Leliana starting to say something, brings a flood of warmth to his face. For some reason calling attention to a rather obvious movement has put him out of sorts with the women. Cullen soothes the back of his neck, which is suddenly prickly hot with the attention of the others on him. He doesn’t have to look up to feel their incredulous eyes.

“Well,” Josephine tries after a drawn-out pause. “We are glad to see you again, Inquisitor.”

Verita gulps, fingers now clenching the thick wooden edge of the table. It is all he can make out, seeing as he’s too cowed to look back up from the table. “Yes, you too,” she says. “As I think you can plainly see,” she starts nervously. “I-- something happened while I was gone.”

Her voice warbles slightly and Cullen wishes to scoop her up and shield her from the source of pain. It’s a sudden, terrifying urge he squashes down.

The tension is unbearable for a moment longer, until Leliana speaks. “Verita,” she says. The Inquisitor answers in a relieved rush of sound, a murmured yes. The spymaster turns on her heel and faces him and Josephine. Cullen looks up from where he was staring, though his movements feel as thick and slow as molasses.

“I received a message from the Inquisitor yesterday with news of her return.” Leliana says. “She also conveyed to me the purpose of her trip with Solas to Crestwood.” Leliana smiles at this. No doubt she pried this information out of Solas, rather than from Verita’s own hand. “He revealed to her the origins of her _vallaslin_ , from study of the fade. It seems the original intent was for the marking of slaves.”

“I asked him to remove it,” Verita rushes to add. Her face is flush with color, the tone of her voice returned to normal for the moment. “I don’t want anyone to think it wasn’t my choice,” she says much quieter.

Verita seems quite hasty to defend Solas -- not that the man needs it. He has never appeared the type to require approval from anyone. The atmosphere in the room has cooled a bit, but Cullen focuses his unsettled nerves on Solas instead. Did the mage ask Verita to remove the tattoo? He must have learned how to do so from the fade and then propositioned her. But for what purpose? As a kindness? The shrinking, uncertain Verita before him could not have been the mage's object, surely. What kind of man would do such a thing to someone he cared for, and then leave her? Before he realizes it, Cullen is frowning at Verita.

“Cullen,” she says. “Are you alright?”

 _Maker’s Breath,_ he thinks. _Contain yourself._

“Yes, Inquisitor. Forgive me, I was only... concerned. That is--” He clears his throat and fiddles with his pommel.

“--by your leave, Inquisitor, there is much we need to discuss,” says Josephine. She saves him from saying anything else, Andraste be praised. This was not the right time to become tongue tied over the Inquisitor.

Thankfully, they start discussing matters of importance to the Inquisition. Not that the wellbeing of the Inquisitor herself wasn’t important, but he can tell Verita would rather not discuss the details any further. Josephine provides a few updates on their allies, Leliana shares what her spies have learned about Corypheus’ movement since the Well, which is sparse. Then it is Cullen’s turn to give an admittedly droll report on the status of the troops and their keeps. Usually Verita manages to remain interested in it all as tedious as it may be, but he can tell she’s fighting to focus right now. He hurries through his list, closing off on Caer Bronach quickly seeing as Verita was just there. She perks her head at the mention, pointed ears twitching. She requests a few more troops at the keep, to clean up the old tavern nearby. Good for morale, she says. Cullen can’t disagree with that, couldn’t disagree with anything she asked of him, as small as she seems to be feeling. It continues to pull at his heart, her defeated pose and soft tone. Most days Verita comes alive in the war room, a true leader diving into problems wholeheartedly. It is just one of the things he admires about her.

They spend over an hour discussing ongoing needs and small details that require Verita’s approval before a there’s a knock and the door pushes open. It is Morrigan, the apostate from the Orlesian court. Her presence immediately quells the productivity, each person turning to stare at the witch’s arrival. Morrigan’s yellow eyes gleam impishly, narrowing in on Verita’s face. She raises an eyebrow before streaming into the room, raven feathers fluttering on her shoulder.

The witch places herself at Verita’s side and cuts to the point quickly. “Have you discovered what secrets the Well holds Inquisitor? Or do the voices still confound you?”

Verita rubs her forehead if pained by the prospect. “The voices whisper from so far away I can barely hear them.”  
  
“If only one who understood such voices had used the Well’s powers instead,” Morrigan snaps.  
  
Leliana chimes in, voice just as curt. “Then we’d have to rely on her interpretation of them and whatever she chose to tell us.”

Morrigan is snide, lip curling, barely contained ire clear in her peculiar, sharp eyes. Cullen has heard what transformative abilities the witch possesses. It seems her penchant for this magic stirs barely beneath the surface, predatory. A part of him itches to hold his templar blade, one he no longer carries. Still, the habits of the order are borne deeply, as hard as he might wish them gone.

Morrigan continues. The woman is absurdly confident. “Have I not been forthcoming enough for you Spymaster? I told you what the Well could have done Inquisitor. You should be hearing shouts from the heavens not whispers.”  
  
A crackle of Verita’s magical energy can be felt in the room. It is obvious she distrusts Morrigan as much as Leliana does. The Inquisitor no longer looks unsure of herself, on edge and quite ready to battle the mage if given the chance. None of the advisors move.

“I will figure it out myself, _Shemlen_ ,” she growls. It’s the first time he’s heard Verita use that word in such spiteful context, if at all. “If the _vir'abelasan_ was not meant for me, it certainly was never meant for you. _Fenedhis lasa!”_

Verita slams a fist on the table before realizing herself. She looks at the hand, chest heaving with effort to contain her annoyance, and unclenches the taught fingers. He does not wish her the displeasure, but Cullen’s proud she stood up to the other woman. Something about Morrigan's haughty nature offends him, as if she’s impervious to wrongdoing. Everyone is capable of making mistakes, no matter how high they hold themselves in their own regard. _The larger the ego, the father the fall from grace_ , he thinks. The witch would fall for a long while.

Verita controls her breathing again, and apologizes for her outburst with a bit of shame. The tips of her ears are pink, and wide-eyed she turns to Leliana. Each of her movements are considered, as if the reaction moments before was entirely of her body's doing. “Have you seen Solas?”

“I believe you will find him easily, Inquisitor.” Leliana smiles coyly beneath her hood. When one knows the spymaster well, as he does now, they steer clear of earning that sort of look of shrewd amusement.

“Then that is where I where I will be. Perhaps he has a further idea about these whispers.” Verita ignores Morrigan’s attempt to speak further, effectively cutting off the witch by turning away. “That’s enough for now, I think. Josie?”

The scratching sweep of quill against parchment punctuates the end of the meeting, Josephine drawing a line at the end of her fine notes. “I agree, Inquisitor. The rest can wait until you’ve rested from your trip.”

Verita nods, thanking them, and turns from the room. The tails of her purple leather jacket, still damp from the field, flaps in her wake. Cullen moves to follow, as if he could possibly catch her and hold her still. As they all usher through the war room doors, Morrigan offers a snide remark about trailing Ferelden pups. He does not give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement. If he had the power to, the woman would find herself at the swift end of a boot, escorted out of Skyhold for good. How Verita manages to keep apologizing diplomatically whenever the older woman provokes her dually perplexes and impresses Cullen. A surge of pride in his breast at the renewed thought of her slammed fist sends a chuckle to his lips though.

Verita’s far better than any of them could have hoped for in a leader, himself in particular. He shoves a hand into his pocket, feeling the lucky coin he still carries ever since the day he left for Templar training. The metal disc feels heavy as he watches Verita slip into the hall to find the apostate who took her tattoo away. With a pang of regret, he let’s her go without saying anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Cullen. I can't help but feel he's a little in love with each Inquisitor. Enamored at the very least. It's nice not to have a crazed demagogue giving you orders.
> 
> I'm also very peeved that as a Dalish Inquisitor you can't tell Morrigan to shut the void up. Seriously, she throws so much shade. A great deal of the dialogue from that part of the chapter is from after you drink from the Well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verita speaks with Solas for the first time after their breakup and receives her first clue from the Well. She and Michel talk about the weather. ;)

_**VERITA** _

Is it possible to collapse inwards? Verita pauses between the double doors beyond Josephine’s office and rests a hand on a cool stone wall. Her heart still thrums from her outburst, equal parts embarrassed and ashamed for reacting so rashly in front of the others. Morrigan always provokes, insinuating her knowledge of the ancient elves is superior to what the Inquisitor knows.

 _Insipid Shemlen,_ Verita thinks sharply. _I was the First of my clan!_

Taking a deep breath, she concentrates on the touch of a chilled wall and the solid ground beneath her feet. Morrigan is an irritating witch deserving of caution, but Verita can keep her annoyance in check. There’s no use in letting it eat away her insides like poison fruit. If the Dalish ranted and raved about every human who thought they knew better, they’d run out of air fast. She breathes, remembering how she manages to stay calm with Sera, though it requires a different sort of patience. And for all the times Solas has commented disdainfully on her people, Verita kept her mettle by counting the pace of her inhales and letting out the frustrations with a deep exhale. It never fails to calm her, the steady drawn-in air that fills her chest and sends a rush of relaxation as it leaves her body. She can’t help but think of her mother each time, rubbing a warm hand on Verita’s back as she deals with something vexing.

_Deeply, breathe da’len._

The advisors begin to chat behind her, their words muffled by the wooden door. Morrigan will leave them, not prone to linger for amicable small talk, and Verita would rather not be caught dawdling. She pictures the woman breezing by, silly feathers on her shoulder hitting Verita in the face, flapping rapidly as if still attached to wings. That absurd thought is enough to get her moving. Even after everything in Crestwood, Verita retains some matter of pride.

Mythal’s servants raise to a fever pitch as she pushes into the main hall. Their whisperings, while still strained, are beginning to grow louder. Nobles gossip in clusters while members of the Inquisition sit at the long tables on either side of the hall, shoveling food into their mouths as quickly as possible. Through the crush, Varric is barely discernible at his regular place by the fire. The afternoon light streams in through the glass paned windows on the opposite end, illuminating the throne and reflecting off the giant bronze birds.

She squints at the glare. Someone had thought to dress the area in Free Marches regalia in her honor, but the Dalish have no tie to such things. It is just another assumption Verita normally tries to ignore. Not everyone understands the Dalish; most have never met an elf that wasn’t from an alienage. If someone had asked, she would have been happy to tell them more. For fear of offending, they never ask.

Annoyed by silly flightless birds, the voices in her head and her tendency to agonize over failed interactions like the conflict with Morrigan, Verita feels close to madness. The walls are tightening in while the noises within her head war for distinction with those in the hall. Her body carries her through the crowd, Verita ducking and squeezing between groups of people who have just enough space between them to accommodate a small dodging elf. She finds herself before Solas’ atrium, doesn’t stop herself from entering the door to the quiet space, the safety of the solitude always found somehow out in the open room.

It is not until Solas stares bemused that she remembers herself. Verita’s cheeks burn. She’d forgotten somehow in the midst of all that noise and confusion. This is no longer a place of comfort. For his part, Solas puts away his expression quiet elegantly, slipping into a look of patience and curiosity with ease. His shoulders relax, hands falling behind his back to be clasped. Verita gulps nervously. She has nothing to say to a calm person who knows her well. She has many things to shout into her fancy, fluffy shem pillow.

“Inquisitor, how might I help you prepare for our final battle?” Solas offers.

He looks far more relaxed than she feels. Whatever it was that brought her to his space, it is certainly not about battle planning. She is not prepared to talk, but the words pour out heedless of any caution.

“I was upset, and I came here.” She tugs the sleeves of her tunic over her hands, feeling small surrounded by the massive paintings on the walls and his unwavering presence. “Without thinking.” She admits it lamely, after too long of a beat. It is met by silence.

Perhaps the thoughtless accident is an opportunity to fix things, discover whatever had broken their relationship. Charter had advised against seeking out Solas before Verita left Crestwood, visiting her the morning after the incident with the bottle of wine. She’d sat on the bed while Verita readied herself, head pounding and mouth thick with the taste of regret.

“My head aches terribly,” Verita had grumbled. “Wine does not mix with the voices. They care little of a hangover.”

“Yes, and I bargain staying away from the bottle and that elf will help clear it out.” Charter had thrown her a pair of leggings for packing and gave a look of determination, lips pursed. “Be strong,” she said, flexing an arm.

Verita had agreed then, nodding slowly yet still wincing at the movement. But now, in front of Solas? He is not what she wishes to clear her head of. If she leaves without saying a word, that would be another added regret to her ever-growing list.

“Solas, can we talk? About what happened? I hardly had a chance to speak before.”

His eyes gleam and head tilts slightly with sudden understanding, a look she has seen as recently as a week ago in a cave where he took away her vallaslin.  

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate at this time. We must focus on what truly matters. Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use against Corypheus.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. The voices in her head hold themselves silent, as if allowing her to focus, Mythal be praised. Verita blinks owlishly, considering each turn of phrase. _Harden your heart. What truly matters._ How can she possibly concentrate on what matters when he’s broken her heart without the barest pretense of reason?

“It would help if you would explain why. What I did to catch your disfavor,” she says.

“The answers would only lead to more questions, an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us. The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me. Let that be enough.”

“Do you think me incapable of understanding?” The words hitch on uneven breaths. They echo her earlier disagreement with Morrigan. Must everyone discount her? Why would he not explain it unless he thinks she cannot handle the reason?

He furrows his brow for a moment, before speaking. “Inquisitor, I would not suggest it. That was not my meaning.”

She shakes her head, resigned. His response is too even for the hope of moving him to share more. If she has learned anything about Solas, it is that he appreciates her questioning nature, but only to a point. At times, his boundaries are as wide and unwieldy as the Waking Sea, the pair of them on opposite shores. To press now would be a waste of breath; it is better to wear him down, to take the voyage rather than a sprint. The heaviness of this realization weighs on her chest.

“Will you talk to me when we are finished with Corypheus?” She sounds too pained, even to her own ears. 

“If we are both still alive afterwards, I promise you, everything will be made clear.”

 _Then I’ll change your mind_ , she thinks. “I would hold you to it,” she says.

He shifts away from her in degrees, inching back towards the tome that rests across his desk, fingers breaking from behind his back to touch the parchment. It is a show of closure, he has things to do rather than speak to her further. He was always eager to engage with her before, talking about the Fade, exploring it together at will. She didn’t anticipate their conversations would cease to exist with the change of their relationship; much of it was impersonal to begin with, historical, theoretical. The void of that friendship will be felt no less on top of everything else.

“Let me know if I can be of any more help in planning our final fight,” he says without looking.

Perhaps he can help interpret the voices from the _vir’abelasan_ , but Verita does not want to impede on his time any longer. She had not meant to be here at all and the way he holds his jaw, tight and resolute, makes her heart hurt. It would be easy to imagine that he protects himself, that there is another reason for their separation. But with an edict so cold as “we can talk if we survive,” Verita’s burning hopes turn to embers. One of Leliana’s ravens stories above squawks loud enough to set a few others on edge, chittering in the rafters. The sudden horrific realization that the others above must have heard their conversation churns icily through her veins, sending a chill down her spine. The day will not cease to embarrass her it seems.

  
“Please, excuse me,” she says. Verita turns on a heel and flees. A flash of a softened pair of eyes follow the line of her escaping figure from the atrium.

 

  
When they’d first arrived at Skyhold, Verita anticipated spending a great deal of time in the gardens. In Haven, the woods were close by, making a short escape feasible. In the giant fortress however, sneaking away unnoticed was nearly impossible. The small courtyard was the closest piece of wilderness Verita could get to without a fuss. It was a bit of a mystery too, how the trees and flowers managed to thrive in a stone hold in the middle of the Frostback Mountains. The first few weeks in Skyhold had everyone buzzing about, organizing what was to go where, who was to staff what, figuring out how to get a hold of provisions in the middle of a mountain range. It was taxing for everyone, but Verita had never had so many people looking at her at once for decisions. Josephine took the brunt of the work in effervescent stride, but Verita had to learn. Everything Verita knew about leadership was tied to becoming the head of her clan. Being Inquisitor had its own set of rules.

Most evenings she decompressed in the gardens, toes in the grass, enjoying the stillness. It was before the nobles came, before Morrigan claimed the space as her own little sanctum. Afterwards . . . well, serenity was difficult to obtain with dozens milling about. Verita gave up her little garden, somewhat wistfully, and looked for solace elsewhere. The test was to find a place not many others linger.

That place is where she finds herself after the failed conversation with Solas. It is unconventional, and lacking grass, but she can feel the wind on her face and watch storms roll in. Verita rests against the half wall of Skyhold’s bridge, far across the gap of the valley, looking down at the river below. She’s not invisible there, yet no one ever follows past the chains of the gate, figuring the wind not worth the walk. Today, a slanting rain slaps the stones, making them slick if you don’t know how to step. It explains the mass of bodies in the hall. The weather is as strange as her day, the sun still shining while it rains in Skyhold. Verita smiles sadly at the water hitting against her exposed skin like the sharp prick of a needle. It reminds her of receiving her vallaslin, Keeper Deshanna tapping the sacred ink into her flesh, the pain an easy trade for being considered an adult.

She strokes her cheek, where the marking had once been. Solas always had a talent with magic, but what kind of magic removes blood markings without a trace? It is a strong spell to learn in the Fade. Did a spirit teach him? If anything, she imagines it to be a spirit of regret -- the remorse she feels for the decision to remove her vallaslin is worse than the disappointment of their breakup. Their love was relatively new. Her love for her clan is what has sustained her, made her who she is. In her heart, two relationships were broken that day before the waterfall; one with a man, the other with her clan. How will she face them?

Hot tears slip down chilled cheeks and Verita swears it’ll be the last time she cries over any of this, vallaslin or Solas. She cannot recall the last time she cried so much -- maybe as a child when Corweth tripped her. They’d been sprinting through the woods, a game to reach father first, and Verita earned the scar on her brow by hitting a jagged rock. Corweth had been tearful too, afraid she’d actually killed her little sister, all the blood pouring from her face.  

Lost in memory, Verita fails to notice the presence at her side until the man clears his throat. She jumps a little, and whips her head around expecting to find an agent who’d been sent to gather her. It isn’t at all, rather the Orlesian Chevalier who’d followed her back from Emprise du Lion. _What was his name? Micah? Mattias?_ Human names all seem the same.

“Inquisitor,” he says, accented voice more pleasant sounding than she’d like. Shouldn’t Orlesian be grating? His blond hair is soaked, a tendril strays from the rest and lies slick against his temple, water seeping down his cheek. Clearly he has been outdoors for some time.

“Yes --?” She still can’t grasp his name, though she _should_ know it. He had knelt before her and pledged himself, as awkward as that had been. “What do you need?”

“I need for nothing. I apologize, you seemed... upset and I thought to offer my help if necessary.”

He looks quite steady in himself, the kind of man that really would need for nothing. Especially not help in killing a demon. _Choice Spirit._ Imshael’s teasing, goading voice comes to mind. _Ah, you met gullible_ _Michel._ And like that, his name clicks into place, Michel de Chevin. A disgraced noble. She does not want to appear weak in front of him. Hundreds of years of Dalish degradation by Orlesians forbids it.  

“I’m fine, Michel. Thank you.” Verita begins to turn away and he stops her with an outstretched hand. He does not touch her, but she looks at is as if it burns. They do not know one another -- maybe she should have been more forward in her dismissal.

“Your ta--,” he says, dropping the word. He meant to say tattoo, then wisely stopped. Pupils enlarged, he seems almost surprised with himself. “You’ve been crying.”

“It’s just a trick of the rain,” she says. Verita averts her face quickly, wishing for him to stop looking at her with such concern. Orlesians do nothing that does not benefit themselves. Surely the Chevalier wants something.

He hums in agreement, resting his hand on the stone wall before them. “Tricky rain to be sure. I thought to escape the castle walls for a while, thinking the sun would hold out. Not a cloud in sight and we’re still drenched through.”

“The Dalish call it _Fen’Harel saota_.” Verita looks up at the sky, sheltering her face with a hand. She turns back to him. “I think the closest translation is the ‘Dread Wolf’s wedding.’ Only on such a day would the sun shine and the rain fall.”  
  
He smiles, raising a scared brow. A twin to her own. She tries not to wonder how it happened. “And why is that?”

“He is our trickster god -- you would swear in his name if something bad fell upon you with no warning.”

“I swear only at myself for getting caught in this.” He gestures around them with a hand, then cocks a brow. “You wouldn’t believe me now, but we call it ‘ _le mariage du loup_ ’ in Orlais. ‘The wolf’s wedding.’ I never understood why before. I think it’s not so surprising now that I hear what your people call it.”

Mythal’s servants whisper urgently over Michel's words, almost shouting, causing her to wince. Verita must concentrate in order to hear both Michel and the voices. It is a rush in her ears, head pounding with the flurry of words falling faster than the rain drops. Out of the blur of whispers she catches the word _garas_ somehow, like reaching out and impossibly snagging a passing arrow. Michel looks at her expectantly. What did he say? He was talking about the rain. How did she get caught up in small talk about the weather?

“I-- yes.” Verita slides by and offers an chastened smile for the misstep in conversation. “I should return,” she says. She hesitates before moving farther, considering if it is rude to walk away without a response.

“I’ll walk with you,” Michel offers. “If you do not mind.”

He sweeps an arm forward chivalrously, as if offering her to go first. Verita nods and takes off, moving quickly. He trails just slightly at her side, silent. He must be used to this sort of thing, escorting around nobles, the Empress of Orlais. Verita doesn’t need a Champion however, and hopes she’s not encouraging otherwise. Charter was right -- she needs to focus on the Well.  And _Mythal'enaste_ , she now has a first clue.

_Come._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think now you'll see where the name of this story comes. The scene on the bridge is the first thing that I'd pictured for Verita and Michel. A sunshower is an actual rare meteorological occurrence, rain blowing in from clouds out of sight. Many cultures around the world have actually referred to the phenomena after trickster animals getting married. [In French folklore, it was called "le mariage du loup,"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunshower) as Michel says. The wolf's wedding. That theme was too perfect to pass up for a story about an Orlesian and the Dread Wolf owning space in one woman's heart. It seems only natural to headcannon that the Orlesians would steal that saying from an original Dalish one.
> 
>  _Fen'Harel saota_ came from [this](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com/post/120098155196/how-would-you-translate-bonding-ie-the-dalish). 
> 
> The rest of the Elvhen words come from the wiki.  
> Garas: Come  
> Mythal'enaste: Mythal's favor  
> Shemlen: A name for humans, can be used derogatorily or not.  
> Vir’abelasan: The Well of Sorrows  
> Da'len: Little one; child
> 
> I don't think many will be reading this story, but for those who have been so far, thank you! I know this is a pretty rare pair, but I love it nonetheless.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel meets some of the young recruits at the Herald's Rest and aims to win Cullen over to his side.

**_MICHEL_ **

 

Has time away from duty addled his senses? Michel orders wine at the Herald’s Rest, thumbing a knick in the countertop absentmindedly while he waits. He itches to use his new sword, to move his feet. Never has his life been so mundane. As Champion his skills were constantly tested, be it by the blade or the cutting edge of wit. He misses the game and the honor-demanded duels, a sword in hand and the steady reprimand of the Acadamie’s instructors in mind. His thorough training had been grueling and strict, cold and more difficult than anything he’d experienced before, but it taught him honor. It gave him purpose. Skyhold drives him mad. There is nothing to do but pace the courtyard in wait and perhaps his mind has gone soft from it. Earlier he asked the Inquisitor after her tears, as if there was anything he could do to stop them. Desperation to be useful, that is all it was. Any honorable man would have inquired.

The wine arrives, a thick, dark red from Alyons. Surprised the dwarf actually had it in stock, he tips the man extra, as he always does. The bartender says nothing and swipes the extra money in his apron, as he always does. Both dip their heads slightly, as if loathe to attract attention to their ritual but still needing to see it done. Michel appreciates the wine before drinking, inhaling the rich scent of black licorice and faint leather. He turns away from the bar to find the minstrel back at her post near the fire. She tucks her hair back behind her ears before plucking another tune from her lute. It is the song about Celene. Of course it is. Michel can't go a day without a reminder of that failure. He keeps the disappointment and regret locked away. Across the room, the woman’s soft, cascading lilt caresses the words of the song.

 

_Empress of fire,_

_In the reign of the lion,_

_Eclipsed in the eye of_  
_  
_ _The empire of we Orlesians._

 

The minstrel hails from the north, near Ghislain if he’d been pressed to make a claim. Closing his eyes for a moment, Michel can imagine himself back in a Val Royeux tavern, the enamored bard as expert of a player of the game as the majesty she fawns over in verse. A favorite played just for the crowd, she’d scan while she sang for faces of discontent, mark them for later. A large guffaw and a waterfall of coins falling to the floor reminds him he’s not in Val Royeux any longer. His eyes crack open in annoyance, the moment shattered.  At a table near the door, soldiers play vignt-et-un, a female dwarf and two Fereldeners. The men slap the table in disbelief as she collects the final pieces of her prize from the floor. The auburn-haired dwarf comes back up and strokes the pot, giggling as she picks up a coin and smooths it between fingers.

Michel takes a seat at the nearest table, adjusting the silverite sword at his side. After the last was destroyed in the paths of the Eluvians, he’d not expected to find such fine craftsmanship outside of the city. Harritt had done the job, though the man shook his head at the request, apparently fed up with the newly discovered metals he was forced to manipulate. The dwarf Dagna had cooed, begging Michel to add a few enchantments. Now his sword could be coated in flame while granting him a slight boost of stamina. It was a matter of practice to not turn his nose at any battle advantage, as long as it didn’t betray his honor. All that was left was finding a way to test the new blade. He’d left the confines of Skyhold that morning to find an opportunity, but was only granted empty terrain and mysterious rain.

A rowdy group of soldiers enter the tavern. They cheer at their comrades then pile up at the counter behind Michel, bartering over the price of ale. Michel snorts soundlessly, recognizing the youth in their voices. For himself, he’s never bartered before in his life. No, it was either stealing or wanting for nothing. He continues to exist in a privileged state of effortless gain even as a disgraced Champion. A part of him recognizes that he should feel some guilt for being able to simply march into the Inquisition with shattered credentials and call for a finer sword than he had before. He washes the thought away with another sip of wine.

“That seat taken?” A soldier with a mess of brown curls and a crooked nose gestures to the opposite chair, sloshing foam over the edge of his mug.

Michel raises a hand, inviting him to sit. The soldier’s companions join him, the fourth pulling up a backwards chair besides Michel. They are young, perhaps no more than twenty. Michel studies them with interest. The first one has had his nose broken a few times -- most likely the result of large fists, but maybe even a quick pommel jabbed to the face. The other three are scar-less, unseasoned. They all seem to be from Ferelden, with thicker jaws and wide shoulders. The man to his right in the backwards seat eyes Michel’s waist, admiring the shiny hilt there.

“Delvin,” says the first man. He offers up a hand to shake and Michel takes it without pause.

“Michel,” he answers.

Another one jumps into the introductions, his hair cropped close to the scalp. He is named Borris, the third is Frederik. They remind him of his early days at the Academie, still green and impressionable. Michel turns expectantly to his neighbor who hasn’t moved his eyes from the spot they held before. The young man takes another swig of his ale, almost missing his mouth as he gapes.

“Is that a silverite sword?”  

“It is,” Michel says. He sets his glass down and unhooks the sword belt. “I take you’d care to see.”

“Can I?”

Michel scoots back from the table to free his blade. All the lads all lean in, eyes widening with the _woosh_ of the sword being pulled from its scabbard. This show is something his instructors would have been adamantly against, but it is harmless. There is no danger of his weapon being turned on him in this tavern in this keep. The silver-blue blade gleams in the candlelight and Michel offers it over.

“Here ---,” he says, holding it for the young man to safely grab. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The the young man puts aside his ale and wipes his hands on his trousers. “Chibbs,” he says. His companions snicker. “Short for Chibbons.” He shrugs and takes the offered sword.

“Never held one of these before,” Chibbons remarks. He holds it aloft, eyes traveling the length of the blade. It is turned out to the side, examined again. In time, all four soldiers inspect Harritt’s work before Michel has it again.

“There’s a fire rune embedded in the pommel here,” Michel demonstrates. “But that is best left for a less flammable room.”

“I bet you show it to all the _mademoiselles_ ,” Delvin jokes. His fake Orlesian accent is terrible.  Michel laughs, putting the sword away.

“They care little for that kind of sword, believe me. The cut of your coat, perhaps. A silverite weapon is hardly a rarity.” He smiles to himself. While a few of the tavern maids were impressed by his sword, thinking him a purse worth catching, that’s not the sort of woman the young man was hoping to hear about. “Ah, and don’t forget about your mask. It better be finer than silverite.”

“Orlesian women are finicky,” Delvin says. “The ladies from my village see me in this uniform and I’ve got to watch my tongue before I get swept up and dumped in front of the Chantry altar, new bride in hand and a dozen riled up like a pack of mabari in the back.”

“Oh piss off,” Borris swears. “They’d laugh at you just as they did before ya left. ‘Cept now you’ve got a bloody hat to cover up that fucking hair.”

Everybody laughs. Delvin’s cheeks are red, though he laughs just as hard as his friend. They return to their drinks in companionable silence, but it doesn’t last long. Michel enjoys listening to them swap tales of embarrassing encounters with the women from their villages. After a few stories they begin to describe some of their conquests with what is assuredly exaggeration. Frederik slept with a Chantry sister, Borris boffed his cousin’s wife, _before_ they met of course. Michel declines the offer to join in, citing his honor as a Chevalier. They turn away from their ribald stories after that, a little bit chastened by Michel’s objection on the matter of principle. He orders them another round though, and the men talk about the women in Skyhold, albeit with more respect than before.

“That scout over there -- Harding? She’s a fine little thing,” Borris says over a gulp of ale. The three other soldiers all agree. Harding still sits with her companions from before, all the winnings long since put away and cards stacked to the side. “She’s ‘round here a lot. Stolen most of our coin too.”

Michel chuckles. “She was clearing those men out of their living when I got here.”

“Doesn’t pay any of us any mind,” says Chibbs. “That or the city elf that lives upstairs. Maryden’s got a song about her even.”

He could choke on his drink in surprise at the observation. Sera’s not interested in what Chibbs has to offer. That was plain enough when Michel had met her a few weeks ago, swearing and giving the bearded Grey Warden a hard time over an unspecific lady.  
  
“Yea, well there’s more elves here tonight than I’ve seen in my life,” Delvin says. At least three elven women hang around the tavern, two of which are part of the Iron Bull’s Chargers. Chibbs has no luck with them either. “You remember Charter?” He whistles sharply. “Too bad she’s at Caer Bronach.”

“She’d stab your hand before you could even try it,” Frederik points out. “But there are a lot of elves here. Think that’s because of the Inquisitor?”

“She’s a fine little thing too,” Borris says. “Don’t mind following her around.” Michel clears his throat. “What? Just saying.” The soldier gives him a wide grin.

Michel skirts over the comment about the Inquisitor. He can’t help picture her lithe form bent over the edge of the bridge though.  
  
“Many likely saw it a better alternative to the slums -- or the alienages if they’re not from Orlais. It’s a much better life for them,” he says. Then adds, “I hear.”

“What about the Dalish?” Frederik points out Dalish herself. “Didn’t think we’d see any of them around humans by choice.”

“I don't think there’s more of ‘em, besides the Inquisitor,” says Borris.

“Nah, she don’t have one of those weird tattoos,” Chibbs says. “Can’t be Dalish then, right?”

“She had it before. The blowing sand must of wiped your head clean out,” says Borris. He turns to Michel. “Chibbs just got back from the Western _Asshole_ , and he’s forgotten everything.”

A figure appears over Chibbs’ shoulder. “Apparently including his manners.” It is Scout Harding, a little smirk on her freckled face. She sets a hand on the back of the soldier’s chair and he stiffens, too worried to look back. “Her face, her business.” She smiles broadly and blushes a little at Michel. She makes a sweet attempt at a curtsey. “Ser Michel.”

“Well met,” he replies.

Harding stares down the boys at the table once more for effect, then paces off to the bar. The soldiers watch her walk away. Delvin punches Chibbs in the arm, and the rest haze him for looking so shocked over Scout Harding breathing down the back of his neck.

Michel can’t but help smile into his drink. Young men are foolish, but these sort are harmless. They too search for the same things he does: honest work and an opportunity to do right for their homelands. The difference is he had it all once before. They’re on the cusp of something great and don’t even know it yet. Michel cannot claim the same for himself. Ever since pledging his sword to the Inquisition, he’s been aimless, waiting for someone to give him a role. That is not the kind of man he is or has ever been. It is far past time for waiting. Fortune rewards those who strike and his aim has yet to fail him.

He spends the rest of the evening with the young soldiers, regaling them with stories of his accomplishments once they realize who he is. Or was. Soon he’ll be on track with a few more glories to add to the list. Michel just needs a champion of his own first.

 

The commander’s office is a mess, books piled in disordered stacks on the desk and on the floor, papers covering every square inch of wood. Cullen doesn't appear to notice Michel standing in the door. He is bowed over a report, quill in hand.

The two have met before, briefly. Not enough time to reach a rapport, but Michel hopes to change that to his advantage. If anyone can help him find a way to be useful, it lies in the Inquisition’s young commander. He believes the ex-templar to be no older than himself. They are both men of accomplishment -- raised from nothing and into roles of great authority and trust before reaching the age of thirty. Though, the commander is the only one who can claim that particular distinction outright. Michel does not wish to share his heritage again. There are already too many who know it now.

“Excuse me, commander.” Michel waits at the threshold before stepping into the man’s office. Cullen looks up, exhaustion apparent around his eyes. He doesn’t act it though, rather perks up and waves Michel inside.

“Come. I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I -- um, don’t have a chair to offer you.” The man rubs the back of his neck, a tick if Michel had to guess.

“Please, there’s no need. I don’t mean to take up your time. I know you to be busy.”

Michel raises his palm to stay the commander from rising. Cullen sinks down, then nods his head in agreement. Though it is plain enough for even the blind to see it, Michel has hit the mark. The commander has too much to do and not enough hours to do it. It is best to be brief and to the point.

“I’ve come to enquire if you’ve need of a strong arm and an honest heart. I pledged myself to the Inquisition without any expectation, but to be honest have done little more than wear a path in your courtyard. I could have spoken to the Inquisitor of this the day before, but it wasn’t a favorable moment. Besides, I don’t flatter myself her concern.”

A quick reaction crosses the commander’s face at the mention of the Inquisitor. A regret maybe. Michel is surprised -- to his knowledge the Inquisitor had been enamoured with the elven apostate for some time, but perhaps not long enough for the commander to be over it.

“Yes, she has been occupied with a great deal of... change as of late. You were right to come to me.” Cullen considers Michel for a moment. “It is true you bested Grand Duke Gaspard in single combat?”

Michel smiles. “In _truth_ it was a fairer match than I have heard it recounted. Honor forbade me to give the final strike.”

“Were you to have made it,” Cullen remarks dryly. “Then we may have avoided the Winter Palace altogether.”

He can’t help but laugh. Courtly intrigue is not for the faint of heart. Though the commander has determination in abundance, Michel cannot picture him in the midst of pampered decadence.

“My apologies, commander,” he says with a grin.

Cullen shakes his head jovially, then jots a note on the corner of a report. “I would speak to the Inquisitor of this, but I could use a man like you as a leader. I don’t doubt she’d agree. You made an impression on a few of my soldiers already. Scout Harding said as much. I’ve also heard a few rumblings about silverite weapons this morning. I assume you’re the one to thank for giving ideas.”

Michel grips the hilt at his hip and bows his head. Undoubtedly the gossip is the work of the young men he’d met the night before. “Ah, apologies for that too. They’re a good bunch of men your recruits. You have done well by taking them on. They spoke highly of your operations here. I’d be honored to be a part of it.”

The commander is far less tired than he seemed before, thinking of his troops. It is a point of pride that Michel cannot disagree with. Cullen has done well with the mismatched array of mages, templars and youths like Delvin and his friends. Michel is not sure he could have done the same.    
  
“I’ll let you know of anything else that comes my way,” Cullen vows.

The commander stands and they shake hands. Michel gives a final nod of appreciation before slipping out of Cullen's office. He feels much better than before, as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. It appears his future now lies with the Inquisitor's conscious. As an Orlesian Chevalier and apparent noble, he knows he is at a disadvantage with her. With a pang of regret, he thinks of the last Dalish elves he met. He hopes he’s at least made a good impression with the Inquisitor so far. If she knew the real reason why their paths crossed outside of Sahrnia, about what Imshael did to clan Virnehn and Michel’s part in it, he very much doubts there would be room for him in the Inquisition at all.

 _Blessed Andraste -- she never need know_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Michel chapter! The story is about to really pick up speed now. I can't wait to get to the next chapter. 
> 
> Also, I need to start making a list of other ways to say honor. I get it, Michel. Your honor demands a lot, especially of my writing abilities. 
> 
> Who's reading along? :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verita grows desperate until a potential solution reveals itself. Now she only needs to find true solitude -- outside of Skyhold.

_**VERITA** _

Time blows away like sand in the Hissing Wastes. Verita feels as isolated as that desolate desert as well, unable to decipher the language piling up in her head like the mighty dunes. Too stubborn to talk with Solas, too prideful to confer with Morrigan, Verita paces the confines of Skyhold like a caged creature in hopes of a sudden breakthrough.

She looks a wild animal too: eyes casted in a faraway stare, scurrying into overlooked corners for isolation from the crowds. Sounds echo off the castle’s stones, both reflections of her inner voices and the comments of others. “Look at the Inquisitor,” they say. “Hardly Dalish anymore.” All sorts of doubt creep into her mind, adding to the disorder between her two still very pointed ears. In her weakest moments, Verita thinks maybe Morrigan was right.

These are thoughts she keeps to herself. They chip at her resolve. Tiny cracks run through her apace, threatening to split her apart with the slightest provocation, words spilling out in disorderly piles. In truth, it’s another reason she seeks the overlooked corners. She can’t bear to come across another soul.

Cole tries to help. He offers to listen with Verita, and though he has a sort of preternatural wisdom, he doesn’t speak Elvhen either. She thanks him anyway and he offers a hug. She gladly accepts.

The next day, Verita returns to the bridge, standing sentinel for hours in hope that the spot was key to her discovery. After that fails, her fingers and toes chilled to the bone, she attempts flexing her mind. Perhaps a few creative pursuits are the trick. In desperation she wills inspiration to spark insight. But at the end of that afternoon of endeavors, all she has to show are two poor drawings: one of hallas and another of a funny nug; one flower crown; and a braided rug for Cole’s corner in the tavern. In all, three days pass without change. Nothing seems to raise the voices like that afternoon -- swelling up so loud she couldn't hear the chevalier, a single word becoming crisp with meaning. Verita cannot account for that success, nor can she blame anyone else for her failure. It is a miserable place to be.

Determined to stay busy and at least train her body if her mind won't cooperate, Verita slinks down to the practice yard with her spirit blade. The ring is empty save a lone templar, a young woman named Lysette. In Haven, Lysette was always near the practice field, watching with a critical eye. Now the templar goes through the paces of a routine, blade raised high, then blocking an imaginary foe across the midsection. The light of the setting sun glints off her breastplate, the lion on her chest emblazoned in orange. Lysette is so alive, so fierce and fluid and striking that Verita stops in her tracks. It feels wrong to interrupt, and completely focused in her task, the other woman doesn't notice. Verita never experienced the circle, but knows what is said about templars in general. Cullen can't even defend them as a whole without hesitation in his voice. In the moment though, it is hard to conceive any of those prejudices could possibly fit the woman in front of her. There's a certain beauty in Lysette’s confidence and ease, and as she completes her last pivot-step-thrust, Verita puts her blade hilt under her arm and gives a little clap and cheer of encouragement. It is nice to see another succeed, even when she can seem to do nothing but fail.

“Oh,” Lysette says, stepping back in surprise. She wipes her forehead, pushing a few stray strands of dark hair out her eyes. “Inquisitor, I'm sorry for taking up the ring.”

Her accent always startles Verita. The young woman looks Ferelden, but sounds almost Orlesian. Lysette sheathes her sword and hefts up her shield to her back. She steps through the open gate, letting Verita pass into the ring.

“Not at all,” Verita insists. “I learned a few skills just watching you. I'm afraid I'm not a warrior yet.”

“That cannot be true. I have heard many good things about your abilities, Inquisitor.”

“You’re too kind,” Verita says.

Lysette gives Verita a quick bow of respect before heading to the main hall. Watching her walk away, Verita realizes she doesn’t wish to be alone. She knows she’s spent too many days with only Cole flitting in once in awhile for company. There is a limit to how much isolation Verita can stand. Even if it is self imposed.

“Lysette!” she shouts. The templar turns on a sovereign, heels coming crisply together.

“Inquisitor,” Lysette responds. She stands at the ready, one hand pressed against the sword hilt.

“Tell me,” Verita says. “What am I doing wrong? Why do I keep flinching?”

Lysette’s eyes widen, but she steps forward regardless of her surprise. “I would need to see your paces, Inquisitor.”

“Verita, if you please.”

Lysette smiles warmly, enhancing her beauty even further, brightening her dark eyes, dimples appearing in her cheeks. She pulls her sword back out of its sheath, steps into the ring and raises her sword arm as if to ready an attack. They meet in the middle of the circle, kicking up dirt with each step. Verita pulls her hilt free, pouring magic forth and forcing it through the unadorned handle. She's still not sure how the magic works exactly, but light dances before her eyes, small spritely spirits, small enough not to bear a name, bond together to fashion a blade. Lysette paces forward, templar skirts rustling the ground as she bends at the knees, bounce in her step.

“Ready?” she asks.

Verita has no time to respond. Lysette closes in. The concentration on her face is intense, the pleased smile changed to a scowl, one that could stop Venatori in their tracks. Over the next several minutes, Verita defends herself against Lysette's swinging blade, seeking points to turn it to her advantage. They don't readily come. Or at least Verita cannot find them. She watches Lysette closely, pushes in when she thinks she ought to only to find empty space or the edge of a blade. The tip of her tongue pokes out in concentration, her brows come together almost uncomfortably. Lysette stops, backs up. She flexes her hand before putting her sword away.

“I think I've seen enough.”

“Already?” Verita says. “I really am that hopeless at this.”

“Not at all. You’re trying too hard.”

Out of every possible issue, that was not expected. The spirits comprising her magical blade zip away, Verita left standing with a simple hilt. She shifts, slotting it back into her belt. The setting sun still shines off her companion’s armor and she blocks the gleam with a hand.

“I'm not sure I understand.”

Lysette stands at ease, but her gestures are animated. “You concentrate too hard at where I am, not where I will be. When you make a decision, it's already too late. Instinct is hard to teach, but I can see you’re trying to undo each of my movements rather than prevent another.”

Verita doesn't know what to say, other than, “Oh.”

“I'm sorry. I've been told I give my opinion too readily at times.”

“No, that's exactly what I asked for.”

Lysette smiles again. “Good. You need to practice thinking ahead.” Verita’s crinkled brow doesn’t stop the templar from continuing. “Say you sat down in the Rest in the middle of your favorite song. You wouldn’t concentrate on the words Maryden just sang, but pick ahead to what’s coming next.”

The metaphor ignites an idea, significance blossoming in Verita’s chest: a desert flower bursting to life through extreme odds. Verita’s heart picks up its pace, thrumming against her breast as sudden understanding echoes through her. She’s been approaching the voices all wrong.

She expels the next few words like an overexcited child. “But if it's a song I’ve never heard...”

Lysette shrugs, as if surprised Verita isn’t seeing her point. “There is always a chorus. Most fighters are fairly predictable. Soldiers especially. We have been drilled to fight, repetitiously. Pay attention and soon you’ll see where we begin to repeat our patterns. That is where you find your opening.”

Time slows as Verita considers. A rightness settles in her bones. She blinks at the other woman, certainly appearing dull-witted as anxious ripples pass through her unseen.  

“Verita?” Lysette waves before her face.

“I-- sorry,” Verita rushes. “I have to leave now, but thank you!”

 

Before, she would have walked through the atrium to visit Cullen. It is the quickest route by far, but now that she and Solas are no longer speaking Verita must cross the courtyard and climb the steps to the battlements. Her heart thunders as she follows the less-used path, skin threatening to burst like an overripe fruit. All she needs is quiet concentration -- a place to learn the song well enough to find the opening, to catch the chorus as it were, and sing along. Her feet fly up the stone steps; wings on her heels. She feels lighter than she has in days, weeks even. A few soldiers linger outside of the commander’s office, their gazes on her bare face. She, can pinpoint the moment they realize her vallaslin is gone. Normally Verita would avert her eyes, but with the possibility of discovering the secrets inside her, all that is doubtful pushes to the back of her mind. The voices do well to block the hideous thoughts completely.

Without stopping to knock, Verita bursts through the door. Cullen stands behind his desk, looming over reports. The glow of the setting sun illuminates half of each page in the stack, and yet he still squints as if there was no alternative source for light. She floats to his desk, igniting candles with a twist of her wrist. Flames flicker brilliantly, hugely, until the magical fire catches the wicks and the intensity settles to normal.

“You shouldn’t treat your eyes so,” Verita says. Cullen folds his arms, standing back from the papers and raising a skeptical brow.

“Then you’d have no opportunity to scold me. Not that there isn’t enough criticism in these reports.” He gestures to the table. “Josephine has seen fit to deliver complaints about our forces straight to my desk. How these nobles still fail to see what is really at stake...”

He is in a mood, she realizes. Verita notices the deep lines between his brow, the untouched food at his desk. More than a few crumpled papers decorate the top and scatter across the floor. She picks one up near her feet.

“I can be quick,” she says.

He straightens at that, sighing, face falling from its pinched look. “No... that is, of course I have time for you. I apologize for the,” he looks around, “complete mess.”

“There’s no need to apologize to me,” she says, contemplating the crumpled paper in her fist. She sets it on the table next to its brethren before clasping her hands before her. “I may need your forgiveness, at least for a little while. I have to leave -- perhaps a few days, I hope no longer.”

“For?” He’s curious now, closing the distance between them.

“The voices of the _vir’abelasan_ are still not clear to me. I need to concentrate, without any distractions, and just listen.”

“And you can’t concentrate here.” His tone is dry; it is not a matter of question, yet still he's far from convinced.

She raises her chin. “Skyhold is too busy -- too full of...” she doesn’t say shem, but rather thinks it. “In seclusion, my thoughts spiral. You may understand such an idea.” He nods. “My clan is used to humans, to their curious stares -- our faces, our ears. Some are hostile, and sadly we grow used to this. But now after--” She shuffles her feet and stares at the floor, admitting far more than she cares to, “Now it isn’t curiosity or hostility. I can’t think through judgement.”

The room is silent for a few moments. The candlelight laps light over her shoes, like glowing waves washing over her feet. Cullen shifts, clears his throat.

“I hope,” he starts, then stops. A few heartbeats and he begins again. “I hope you don’t think I’m judging you.”

Verita looks up to a very concerned face, mouth flat, eyes filled with a sort of fear that she knows well. Disappointment is a demon that runs amok through her too. It’s touching, his consternation at the idea. “Of course not,” she soothes. “I know better of my friends.” That doesn’t relax him as it might. After an awkward silence where she considers where she went wrong, he returns to business, a stiffness overtaking his shoulders.

“You aren’t asking my permission I hope.”

“I thought I should tell someone before I left.”

He nods. “Who are you bringing?”

A soft smile crosses her lips. “Isn’t that perhaps contrary to my purpose? Who would you even send with me for silence? I care dearly for them all, but my companions are not quiet.”

“Cassandra,” He offers.

“Her face says too much.”

Verita raises her brow, challenging. She meets Cullen’s crossed arms with her own, drumming fingers against an elbow. He opens his mouth to speak, frowns when he realizes his cannot argue. Then, as if he has won an imaginary point she’s yet to hear, a self satisfied smirk appears.

“Verita, for your safety, I insist. I believe the chevalier Michel de Chevin can be both silent and keep your guard. If he can keep that puffed peacock alive across half her blighted country, he’ll do more than fine.”

“Cullen!” she laughs, biting back her immediate thoughts. A chevalier hardly seems the sort of person you turn to for freedom of judgement. Perhaps Michel carries his prejudices close at hand and buttoned up, but so does she. Verita considers herself talented at keeping her many emotions closed off from others, but the last week has pressed rather uncomfortably on that outer shell. The cracks finally burst in an unexpected fashion, not doubt falling out, or fear, but annoyance. She frowns slightly, nose wrinkled.

“You dislike the man,” Cullen infers.

Cullen deserves honesty; she does trust his counsel, though his opinion of her may color greatly after she tells him her mind. “I haven't the chance to know Ser Michel. I know how it will sound, but a chevalier guarding me as I learn a secret from my people seems... wrong to them, to my past, our past.”

“We are more than our roles,” he says. “I was once a templar. Perhaps you believed working with me was wrong at first?”

“I never dealt with templars though,” she adds quickly, not wanting to offend.

Cullen smirks as if she's been trapped. “And did you deal with chevaliers?”

“No. I didn't -- no. I would consider it, but I'd like to leave tonight.” The rush of excitement returns at the thought of solving the puzzle at last. She clenches hers hands to keep them from trembling. Cullen’s relaxed, content expression keeps her from being upset with him for pushing an escort. And he does know how to push her -- she has done the same, albeit with more subtlety. But he has a point, unsaid as it is. They’d be lost without her hand. Far better to be safe than risk everything because Verita wants to sit alone deep in thought where anyone could find her. And while he may be proposing a chevalier, she and Michel are not friends. She’s in no danger of spending her time worrying about him, his moods, his comfort. It will not be easy, where they will go. She tips her head, acceding fully at last. “At times you're oddly persuasive without saying much.”

“Your observation does me more credit than I deserve.” A slight smile appears and Cullen relaxes his stance, hand dripping to rest in his pommel, comforted by the task of briefing a fellow man at arms. “I'll speak with him if you'd like.”

Though it would be a relief for someone else to explain her wishes, if they are to travel together, she can hardly ignore the man. And Verita is not weak, as fragile as she may seem at times. She may as well learn to interact with Michel, and not over the weather. Though if she has it her way, they'll speak barely at all, her mind too full of ancient words to comprehend whatever chevaliers have to say in their spare time.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she says. “But I would hate to take up more of your time on this.”

He wishes her luck and she escapes his office, relieved to see the soldiers from before no longer linger.

 

Michel is in the tavern, talking, telling stories. _This is the man who will serve me silently?_

Verita waits just past the threshold, observing him in his element, surrounded by young onlookers; these soldiers aspire to swing their swords in the name of fine women, fine wine and finer clothing. No one spots her yet, half in the shadow of one of the tall wooden posts. She would like to keep it that way, but there is no way to secure his attention without also calling it to herself. Planted in the middle of the room, a barmaid brings him a dark, red wine. He palms coins in exchange and her eyes widen at the tip. Verita ignores what that might mean, distrusting of extravagant shows of fortune.  

He catches her staring, giving a subtle glance in her direction as he turns back to his party. After winding down his tale, he begs off from the table, much to the dismay of the soldiers. They argue jovially and Michel shakes his head as he ambles up to the bar, sitting beside Scout Harding. The dwarf looks back at Verita and gestures enthusiastically, smile contagious. Her cover blown, Maryden sees the exchange and launches into song about the Inquisitor’s fine eyes, as green as the mark on her palm. Verita really, truly dislikes that song. Michel and Harding confer over something in low tones as Verita approaches, the dwarf nodding enthusiastically at his suggestion.

“You looked a little lost,” Harding says. Her eyes twinkle with mischief.

“I seem to require your guidance wherever I go,” Verita supplies. Michel doesn’t turn to look at her, simply finishes his wine and throws another tip on the bar next to his empty glass.

“Well, duty calls, Inquisitor.” Harding scoots off the bar stool, hopping to the ground. “I’m sure I’ll see you on the road soon.”

She walks over to Maryden after giving Michel a good night, and offering Verita a little smile of encouragement. Soon a new tune begins, picking up directly after the bridge about Verita’s “ heart of lightening and voice of moss.” The bard’s next song is low, somber; Verita shivers at the words, thinking of Lysette’s advice.

 

> _Find me still searching_
> 
> _For someone to lead me_
> 
> _Can you guide me_
> 
> _To the revolt inside me_

 

The lyrics aren’t entirely right; she needs no one to lead her. She must lead herself. _I only require time to be myself again,_ she thinks.

“Scout Harding is a good friend to have at hand,” Michel says, breaking through her distraction.

She misses half of his comment. “What?” she asks. Verita realizes she’s been rude, half listening to the man again, and apologizes. This time she’d sought him out after all. The chevalier presses his lips together at that, and puts his back to the bar.

“You have something to ask of me,” he says. Verita nods. “Would you mind joining me outside?”

Verita’s relieved at the suggestion. She knows he’s done it for her own sake. Instead of stopping just outside the door, they keep walking. The evening wind has picked up, channeling through the mountains and rushing over the parapets. Inquisition flags whip to and fro, beaten by the gales, the frustrating  _snap_ of the fabric growing more prominent as they walk farther from the tavern. Despite her fixation for the bridge and its relative privacy, it is far too windy to speak out there, unmoored. Instead they end at the opposite set of stairs, walking up a few to conceal themselves behind the trees that loom over the empty vendor stalls. Verita sits, Michel leans against the wall a few steps below.

“You are leaving,” he remarks.

Verita looks at him shrewdly. “How did you know?”

“The way you’ve been walking around -- you feel trapped.”

This should be relieving, he knows half the discussion already. It is unnerving knowing she’s so transparent though. Does everyone else see this? Or does this chevalier have a talent for observation? What else does he notice without her leave?

“Have you been watching me?”

He considers the night sky as well as his answer. She looks up to see what could possibly be distracting. A star shoots across the dark, and she follows its path as far as it's visible. It dips past the line of the outer walls. “No more than anyone else, Inquisitor. Though...” He comes back to the ground, face inscrutable, unreadable. Verita hangs on the edge of her step, fingers cold as they press into the stone. “Perhaps old habits are harder to lose than I thought. Forgive me the intrusion.”

“It isn’t,” she allays. As she always does, even though she supposed she would not like this chevalier. Even when it _is_ an intrusion. He frowns a little, as if he can read her innermost thoughts too and finds her passivity somewhat lacking. She swallows, and realigns herself. They could leave this evening if he is ready; Verita does not mind the dark. “It has been conveyed to me that perhaps I could use a companion. Cullen recommended your silence and effectiveness in protection. Should I need the assistance.”

“Both are true. What is the mission, if I may ask?”

“I’m surprised you don’t already know.”

He sits down a step below her still, shaking his head slightly. He waits for her lead -- it is all she needs to feel assured on one count: this fancy Orlesian actually can be blessedly silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their trek begins. Michel really would be a good companion -- one doesn't follow the empress of Orlais around for years without picking up certain skills in reading people. If only we'd had him as a playable companion in the game. Wasted potential! (Gimme more Michel)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel and Verita set off from Skyhold and come across travelers who make Michel a bit uneasy.

**_MICHEL_ **

The Inquisitor asks to leave Skyhold at once, wringing her hands at the prospect. While traveling under the cloak of darkness has its drawbacks, Michel does not argue. Years of training with the chevaliers prepared him for every outcome, even battling in the absence of light. There’s more for it than that, however. Over the last few days he has observed how the weight on the Inquisitor’s shoulders has grown in proportion with her misery.  She will break soon, and that serves no one alive in Thedas. The pressure is obvious in the dark, paper-thin skin beneath her dimming eyes, the forced smile, the way she continues to rub her marked palm with a thumb, as if to wear away the responsibility it requires of her. The woman needs a pause, respite from duty.

It would be easy to compare her against Celene; the empress never allowed the weight of Orlais to overtake her, but then again, Celene hid an elven lover for years. If she did have moments of desperation, Celene was too well versed in the game to show it. Now in the weak glow of torchlight, watching Verita’s tired eyes express just how deeply she needs to exist without the judgement of onlookers, he’s grateful for her transparency. It allows him to be of use.

A reprieve of a quarter hour is all she grants him. Michel does not require the time -- a chevalier is always ready, but he strides over to the stables to wait. Horsemaster Dennett has retired for the day; only Blackwall stirs in the hayloft above. With just the bite of the evening breeze to keep him company, Michel checks the horses over, ignoring the more bizarre breeds entirely. Pride and sensibility tells him to pick the sole Orlesian Courser; a pang of regret keeps him hovering at its stall. Aside from stature, the war horse looks nothing of Cheritenne, its dappled grey far from his old horse's dark mahogany coat. Michel strokes its velvet nose, feeling the warm, even gusts of breath rush against his palm, a strange summoning spell that brings images of Cheritenne's last moments. His great horse had cried on the forest floor until Michel neared, calming to a low whimper in recognition, in hope. It was for naught. Cheritenne’s twisted, useless legs were devastating to look upon. The pit of Michel's stomach still aches in memory of his horse’s desperate plea and the clean slice of his blade against the dark throat, silver seeking red. He has to look away from the stall before him, dropping his hand. It is then that the Inquisitor appears.

“Ser Michel?”

She teeters at the edge of a wooden beam, just as in the tavern, now holding her pack and staff at her back. Her eyes are free of the dark kohl usually surrounding them, face completely bare. Without the vallaslin, without the makeup, she's as familiar as any elf he'd lived amongst in the slums of Montfort. And still as distant too. City elves had no kinship for human-looking children.

“I suppose that’s a wise choice, Inquisitor,” he says. He swallows past a lump of lingering discomfort. “We’ll be soaked through soon enough.”

She gives no answer besides the slight dip of a chin. She must pass before him to reach her mount, a barely tamed hart, of all creatures. The Inquisitor slips by, whispering a small forgiveness as he must step back to admit her.

He settles on the grey Courser after all, a chevalier predictable only two things: his honor and éclat. The Inquisitor works efficiently two stalls down, preparing her mount in quiet concentration. He would offer assistance, but the words die quickly on his lips as she primly scales the massive creature. It dwarves her, but she looks at ease. Michel’s mother had told tales of elves riding halla. At the time, his six-year-old mind could not differentiate halla from horse and horse from rider. Everyone in the slums feared the chevaliers and their horses too. Halla seemed as daunting a prospect. Now, in the stables, the Inquisitor commands presence as well as any chevalier on top of her hart. Her straight spine reminds him of riding his well-earned steed for the first time through the slums. It's a dark path to follow with her mere feet away, even if she cannot read minds. Before heavy memories can settle at the base of his neck, he rolls his shoulders and follows the Inquisitor’s lead out of the stalls.

A handful of guards are the only witnesses to the Inquisitor's evening flight. The guards nod respectfully at their leader, relaxing as they fall out of her sight. Michel is not sure she can see the effect she has on her people. She is highly regarded, but doubt can spread like a rot, fouling everything in its reach. He thinks to comment on it, later.

For the time being, the descent from the fortress tests their mounts; slick ice coats the sloping path to the basin of the valley. Blessed Andraste, neither stumble or falter. The moonlight reflects off the river and bounces off the stark white snow, providing much better sight. Once passing the lower camp, the Inquisitor halts her hart, pulling off her boots. She loops a leather braid between the tongue and the top-most buckle on both, tying two complicated knots tight, then hangs the boots over the hart's back like saddle bags. Process complete, her head swivels to Michel. He cannot see her face, but her posture dares him to speak to another choice about her appearance. He offers no commentary, but the defiantly raised chin is the first spark of life he's seen in days. Though she clearly finds him lacking in tact, Michel cannot help but smirk to himself, reassured by the darkness she’ll not notice.

The first few hours are uneventful. Their pace is quick, though forgiving, and soon the peaks give way to subtler hills. The valley spills out into farmland, rolling green dotted with small houses that lean in the wind and large barns with even larger yards. The silver moonlight now gleams off dew capping tall blades of prairie grass. Sparkling waves span out before them and moisture wicks at their legs as they ride through the undulating sea. Her feet must be cold, shoeless and damp, but from his position slightly back to her left, he can see no discomfort. The farther they travel, the looser her shoulders, the freer her limbs. The Inquisitor regains herself under the starry sky.

The passing hours are measured in color: the black of night swallowed by creeping pinks and oranges splashed against the horizon. Soon there will be no room for dark, the break of dawn touching everything in its path. The town of Crestwood approaches, windows and rain-slick roofs sparkling in the early morning sun, but instead of slowing as he suspects she might, the Inquisitor pushes on. She races past Caer Bronach as well; her hart bellows its eerie, lonesome call as she leans into the animal, heels in its sides.

They keep riding apace, surpassing the large lake above the old dam. His Courser enjoys the surge, a whinny to match the hart’s triumphant calls. The Inquisitor rides ahead by at least two lengths, disappearing over the crest of a large rise as if absorbed by the horizon.  Michel nearly runs her over once atop himself. The Inquisitor stops abruptly, two travellers flailing their arms and shouting something indiscernible to his ears. Not to hers. It is elvish.

Words of greeting are exchanged and she slides off the hart. They are stopping. To speak with these damn wandering Dalish. The hairs on the back of his neck rise and Michel’s collar grows tight, choking the breath out of him. His courser stomps, impatient and frustrated at the break. One of the Dalish glances over, realizing him there. Golden lines delicately twist around her eyes, over her forehead. Her vallaslin is the same as the Inquisitor’s was not long ago. The elven stranger gestures to him with her chin, and asks something sharply, acid on her tongue while the lines of her marking come closer together at the corners as she squints.

“He is a companion,” the Inquisitor says, in common for his benefit or because their words have run out. “We’re headed to the coast.”

Another dalish word, a shaken head. “We heard from your Keeper you fight the rifts and the demons. But with one of them? An Orlesian!”

The dark, solemn elf who has not yet spoken puts an arm across his companion. “ _Falon_ , hush.” His vallaslin is complex; blood red arrows seem to arch across his temples. The lith man steps forward, now reaching towards the Inquisitor's face. Michel's hand tightens on his pommel. “ _Telharthan,_ ” the man wonders. Ironically, Michel can grasp this phrase’s meaning, muttered during his mother's many moments of weakness when he was but a boy. _I don't understand._

The Inquisitor flinches, brushing away curious fingers on her cheek. “ _Arani,_ ” she pleads. “A result of strange magic. I-- can't really explain it, I--”

She reaches for the right words, voice wavering. They won't come easily, if what Michel has overheard in the tavern and on the practice yard is correct. Her elven apostate lover erased the lines in a fit of pique, before leaving her.  Michel feels for the Inquisitor’s predicament now, confronted with her people for the first time since losing her mark. The fresh awkwardness cuts through his sieging initial panic, but there's nothing he can do aside from snatching her up and placing her on the back of her hart, slapping its hind quarters for good measure. And perhaps that is what they expect of him. The gold-lined woman has yet to stop her examination, as if he is want to slice them down as soon as she looks away. He studies them with subtly. Neither show their weapons outright, but the woman is a fighter. The thickness of her arms, the caution and judgement in her eyes and her staggered stance give her away. There's bound to be a few knives strapped on her body. The man is partially shielded from him. It's no mistake. Perhaps a mage, for all his marking states otherwise.

The Inquisitor keeps fumbling at her words; Michel keeps his mouth firmly shut. Heavy suspicion fills the air around them like smoke spilling back from a stuffed chimney. The Inquisitor finally presses her lips together, and silence falls between them. Michel counts three beats of respite before the woman calls her accusation.

“We came from _Arlathven.”_ The male elf assuages the Inquisitor’s immediate look of stark concern with a dismissive gesture. His companion continues heedlessly, as she still glares at Michel. "Clan Virnehn was destroyed last fall by Orlesians and their civil war.” She spits towards Michel and his horse stomps, offended. He can’t disagree, but the blood drains from his face and pools in his gut, churning. Her words grow worse. “We met the last of her clan-- the First Mihris. She said she met the Inquisitor and that you had no time for her.” Now her accusatory eyes track back to the Inquisitor. “'Too enamoured with a city elf,’ she'd said. You gave an artifact of our people to him.”

How has the world grown so small? The creeping unease at his nape spreads down his spine. The Inquisitor’s face crumples and she bites her cheek, like as not to cry. On the outside Michel is certain he appears unchanged, though his insides twist in agony just as hers, though for drastically different reasons. Does this elf know about him? Did Mihris give his name up? She’d welcome a demon inside of her once in her fury, it was all the proof he needed then that the mage was a wreck, unbalanced and idiotic. No doubt her vengeance and anger has sustained her all this time.   

“We didn't really believe Mihris. Not at least about the First we knew, Verita would never turn her nose at one of the people. Heart as soft as moss. But now, here you stand, and it's clear you are no longer that woman. You betray us! Keeper Deshanna was a fool for sending you to that human conflict. You're as bad as any of them. The head of a human army that means to lend its support to Orlais. To his kind.”

Michel wants to throttle the woman, but this is not a battle he can win. Of course there’s no doubt he could strike down both elves, but even with their accusations against her, the Inquisitor would be outraged. His best course is to remain silent, watchful. So far these are just words. Bitter, hasty words. Everything he has seen tells him the Dalish are an angry, disdainful people prone to lash out at what they refuse to learn. Is ink and pointed ears more important than sense and duty to the world at large? Is nothing beyond their past important? The world moves forward, not back.

The Inquisitor swallows, the delicate line of her throat quivering. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, considering her words.

“I am no longer First,” she says, opening her eyes. In the breaking sun they are more vibrantly green than the breach ever was. “But that does not mean I forget the people. I must do this, for all of us.” She pulls off her glove, reveals her palm. The mark splits wide open, power surging through the skin, green light throbbing like a wound, hot and angry. The male elf examines the mark, steps closer to the Inquisitor. Michel clenches his jaw, he can see the twisted wooden staff now that is pointed away.

“The Inquisition is more than a human army,” she continues. “There are many different kinds there -- elves, dwarves, even qunari who have abandoned their shores. I do nothing to dishonor us. I’ve learned more about the people than we ever knew -- if you only understood--” She blinks away the mark and shakes her head. “I cannot tell you now, but there will be time.” She makes a vow in elvish. One of the pair seems satisfied, the man offering a nod. The woman surges forward and grasps the outstretched palm.

“Keep your promises,” she says. “And keep your Orlesians far from us.”  She pushes the Inquisitor’s hand away as if it is a rotten thing.

“Inquisitor,” Michel says, irritated enough at last to overcome his determined silence. The Inquisitor turns her face upward to him, surprised he has spoken.

“--Yes?”

"I agree with this woman. I’d be happy if you kept me far from her. We must go.”

Before the angry elf can respond, the Inquisitor looks back to the man with arrows on his face and a staff in his palm. She says something quickly with a pleading look. A question to do with this Keeper Deshanna they spoke of before. The elf nods and the Inquisitor sighs deeply, relieved. She turns away to get back on her mount and for a moment it looks as if the other woman wishes to stop her, but the man forces her back again. Michel cannot wait to be rid of them both. He's lucky to have gotten away so easily.

After the Inquisitor mounts her hart, the more sensible elf drags his companion by the elbow. The proud line of the Inquisitor’s back slumps as they turn away at last. She urges her hart forward and it complies with a bellow again. Michel trails her, a few horse lengths behind as before, and lets the Inquisitor try to outrun her own disappointment.

   

 

“I know what you think,” she says, handing Michel back his canteen. They’d stopped for a quick break, beyond Crestwood, out where the trees began to overtake the hills, and the scent of rain and ocean is faint, but promising.

There’s no possible way she can know what he's really thinking, wondering how he'd somehow come out of that discussion unscathed. His link to the destroyed clan was still unknown to the Inquisitor. Michel acts amused, though amusement is far from his mind. Only a few moments ago had his stomach really settled. “Oh?” he asks.

She sighs. “You think we’re all bitter, but we’re not.”

“While I’ll not say you’re wrong, to be fair I never thought so of you.”

She tears a strip of dried meat, eye teeth suddenly viciously sharp.  “I’m sure hearing about another clan had riled everyone. And they called an _Arlathven --_ it has only been five years since the last. It's hard to not feel a bit _spirited_ after one of those.”

He hums in agreement. “I’ve fought some of your spirits,” he says. “I can see what you mean.”

The Inquisitor chews on that, wiping her hands on her leggings. She unwinds a braid near her temple and gathers up the rest of her hair to tie it back.

“I've known Me’paelan a long time. She lost her brother when he was young, before he earned his vallaslin. Their clan stayed too close to an Orlesian town one season and one day her brother was found down by the stream running near the town. The guards were searching for a boy from the slums, one that must have looked like him. The men did not believe he was Dalish. He didn't have the markings. You might imagine how this story ends. I can't blame her anger at me today. Men who look like you do are not in her capacity to forgive. It's not bitterness; it's a deep kind of despair that makes her edges too sharp. And when clans are destroyed, it only acts like a whetstone for her.

“I never met an Orlesian before traveling here. What I know about your countrymen comes from stories like Me’paelan's, stories about the past. I don't know you, other than you served Celene for many years, angered a rather smug demon and somehow fell into disgrace. I have no anger for you, Michel. I have no bitterness. I am not an extraordinary Dalish, many of us could care less about you. But we may be slow to trust when we come across your people and surely you can understand why.”

Michel thinks it's the most he's ever heard her speak. That alone is enough to startle him.

“Why did you ever let me pledge to the Inquisition?”

“I may be slow to trust, but I also am not without sense.” The Inquisitor whistles and her hart returns from behind a tree, mouth full of leaves. She ascends again, graceful despite the tiredness she must feel. They'd been riding for a long time. Now looking down at him, the Inquisitor smiles sadly. “And you may not believe me, but I know how to spot a good fighter. We're in need of anyone with your skill.”

She shifts in her saddle and strokes her animal on its neck. There's not much to say, and that's just fine for Michel. He packs away the canteen still in his grip and their supplies. The Inquisitor is far more forgiving than him, far, far more kind than that woman earlier deserved. He shakes his head at his horse, disbelieving someone like her even exists. It's a good thing she was born to a clan far from here and not in the slums he knew. Orlais would have eaten her alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where not knowing the plot of The Masked Empire and some small bits of game canon might leave you a bit behind. The Inquisitor meets Mihris in the Hinterlands, and if you'll recall, she's looking for artifacts. Stumbling on one, the Inquisitor can help her, and essentially take the thing she was looking for and give it to Solas. In the game, it amounts to a necklace that gives Solas a skill point boost. In terms of the story line, that's a really shitty thing to do. I can imagine Mihris, clanless and rightfully a bit disgruntled, wouldn't take kindly to that exchange. Especially since her dislike for "flat ears" is really dialed up in TME and that's exactly how Solas would seem to her. Clan Virnehn was not a very kindly one. Really quite opposite from what is canon for clan Lavellan, who have embraced their relationship with humans and city elves alike. 
> 
> Also, what I appreciated about TME was Briala's sad realization that her people are not the same as most Dalish clans' definition of thier people. Take Solas' worst comments to the extreme and that's the animosity between Briala and Mhiris' clan in TME. Strangely, Michel has had a closer view on this than Verita has, surpressed as it may be. The reason I enjoy this pairing so much is that it forces both of them to examine much of what they have internalized about each other's cultures.
> 
> And sorry for the long end note, but I had to add one thing I almost forgot about Michel. This quote, from TME when Cheritenne is injured by the sylvan:
> 
> "Only Ser Michel seemed un-affected, his breath regular and easy even as his armor clanged in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder, though his face was splotchy and red from tears. The chevalier who would kill peasants without flinching shed tears for his horse." 
> 
> .....  
> Words from Project Elvhen 
> 
> Falon-- friend, more personal than arani.
> 
> Arani -- friend, more casual than falon. 
> 
> Telharthan -- I don't understand
> 
> Arlathven -- gathering of the Dalish clans, it happens every ten years according to the wiki. I'd like to think the Keepers would call one regardless of when the last was held after the breach and the rifts. Perhaps there's a timeline for the last Arlathven somewhere, but I didn't find it. Verita cites five years to show that this one is not on schedule.


End file.
